


New Year's Eve

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fluff, House Party, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Strange's house is a home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22049212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: A story of four first kisses... but only one that counted.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	New Year's Eve

**Author's Note:**

> One final story for 2019! As you can see, I was feeling very creative when I titled this one.

It had all been rather last minute – Max hadn't intended to go out on New Year's Eve – but Strange had issued the invitation in such a way that it felt impolite to refuse. Besides, a house party is a level of 'out' that he can just about handle, even after a week like this one.

It might be why he's drinking rather faster than he normally would, but it's hard to care in the warm and convivial atmosphere. Strange's flat exudes a sense of home – from the quietly mismatched décor, to the way food and drink is offered freely and spills laughed off.

It's mildly odd to find himself surrounded, absorbed into a wholly new friendship group within which he doesn't quite belong. He thinks the reason for that might be the man who has just perched on the sofa arm and draped himself across the back. The police of Cowley seem to be under the impression that he and Morse are friends, and he now finds himself invited, more often than not, to their outings – pub visits, quizzes, and this.

Morse has drunk even more than him, going by the languid way he turns to Max. “Here,” he says, handing over one of the two beers in his hand. Max hasn't quite finished his current one, so he downs the last mouthful and bends to tuck the glass out of the way.

He looks up to take the fresh glass and finds Morse staring at him. “Morse?” he asks, wondering if he's been standing here for half an hour with egg and cress round his mouth. He swipes, surreptitiously. The man in question blinks, a smile gracing his lips.

“Sorry,” he says gruffly.

“You've had rather a lot,” he says, nodding at the beer, and immediately wonders why he did. He's not a doctor tonight, and he'd rather Morse drink like this – in company, in celebration – than alone.

Morse shrugs, and again the movement seems too smooth, too easy, to be Morse. Is this what he's like, when he's relaxed? It burns a little that he's not seen it before, all their years and only the rigid stance of the necrophobic Morse, the weakly bleary injured Morse, the far away distracted crime-solving Morse. He knows there are no open murders at the moment, but this seems like something more – and more than the alcohol too. Maybe it's being around Strange. The man has a calming, steady presence. Maybe that's what Morse always needed.

He feels like they should chat, but he's not sure he has it in him for an intellectual conversation, and Morse and small talk have never gone together well. Morse shuffles next to him, and his objective becomes clear when Shirley shifts further along the sofa, and Morse slips into the space she left.

“Sit,” he insists, nodding at the sofa arm.

Max takes up Morse's perch. Strange is a popular guy, and the flat is packed – he's been stood all night. It may not be the comfiest of chairs, but he settles into it gratefully. He takes another sip of his beer, and almost chokes when Morse slides sideways, resting his head again Max's side. His mind races. Push Morse off? Ignore it? The one thing he can't do, he knows, is curl his fingers into his hair and hold him in place.

The thought makes him blush, and he shifts awkwardly.

“Sorry,” Morse mutters again, taking his embarrassment for discomfort. He lifts his head and the spot where he'd rested feels cold.

“It's nearly midnight!” calls Shirley excitedly, and digs herself out of the sofa to go find Fancy. Morse hauls himself sideways, then one strong hand clamps on Max's arm and draws him down into the warm spot. Morse hasn't moved quite enough, it turns out, and they're pressed together, Max's left leg slightly atop Morse's right. He turns to admonish Morse for the action, for dragging him about like they're teenagers, but his brain stutters and stops at the look on Morse's face.

“Ten, nine, eight...”

“Morse?” he asks, and the man in question squirms just enough to extricate himself from underneath Max. It's warm in here, Max thinks, blood heating his cheeks. Too many people. They're still pressed against each other and Morse is still looking at him. He can't think the last time he saw Morse speechless, but no words seems forthcoming.

“Seven, six, five...”

Morse's hand is still latched around his arm, and the touch – slightly too tight, slightly too grasping – feels like a brand. He wonders if he'll have imprints, if when he gets into bed tonight Morse will have left the mark of his hand on his skin.

“Four, three, two...”

The hold has turned his wrist to the ceiling, shirt riding up to bare one of the most sensitive, most delicate parts of him. His heart thuds, unbidden, and he stares desperately at his own arm, hoping against hope that the frantic beating can't be seen or felt. For how to explain this reaction? Fingertips tease at the thin skin – or do they? Is that just where his fingers rest? But why has Morse not let go?

“One, happy new year!”

The shout is followed by a raucous cheer, and the bang of party poppers that make them jump. Morse drops his arm like a hot potato, and is hauled to his feet by a deceptively strong Dorothea Frazil. She holds him by the ears and plants a brief peck square on his mouth.

“New Year's kiss, Morse, don't look so shocked.” She wipes a thumb over a streak of lipstick she left, and his lips curve into a smile. She bends and kisses Max on the cheek next; a courtesy, no doubt, as he's right there. They know each other by name only. The action turns his head to the side, and out of the corner of his eye he catches Morse, staring contemplatively at where Dorothea's lips brush his skin.

She moves away and he turns back to face her. “Given me my own lipstick mark?” She grins and scrubs at his cheek.

“Only a little.”

She walks off, searching out others, and he stands and turns to Morse. He is the reason he's here, after all, and all around them people come together to wish their nearest a good year ahead. And if anyone needs the well wishes it's Morse. “Happy new year,” he says simply – unsure of how to build in everything that he wants to convey. He's not even sure what that is, but he knows he means summer afternoons in the garden with seed cake and lemonade. He knows he means hot flasks of tea at winter crime scenes, and pub invitations and letting Morse write the quiz answers so he can correct wrong guesses given by their team mates. He means more, too, if it was an option, but he's never claimed to be a brave man and he'd be happy with just this. It's a lot.

Morse sways, too many beers in too short a time, and his arm nudges against Max's side. His smile is wide and easy as he leans closer to be heard over the merriment around them. “Happy new year, Max.”

“Morse!” Shirley swings an arm around his shoulder and pulls him down for a peck. Morse grins, then grimaces when Fancy catches him from the other side and mirrors the action. He pushes him off, scrubbing at his own cheek, and loops an arm around Shirley's waist, tugging her next to him and grinning smugly at Fancy. And Max – Max feels like maybe he should be getting home. He knows these people, but they're not really his, and by being here Morse feels he has to stick close to his side when he could be enjoying himself.

He nods sharply, sets his half-full glass down, and slips from the party.

No one stops him as he steps into the hallway. It is cooler out here, the heating turned off because of the mass of bodies inside, and the door closes behind him, muffling the still-playing music, the chatter, the laughter. Where is his coat? Half of Oxford has turned up since him, it seems, because it's buried beneath enough bulky outer layers to form an autumn/winter collection.

The music blasts louder and he turns, one hand clutching the arm of a brown coat he thinks is his.

“Max?” The door closes behind Morse, cutting them off again. “You're leaving?”

He fiddles with the fabric of the coat sleeve, following it up until he unearths the collar and manages to unhook it from the peg. Morse steps up behind him, catching the coats above and holding them, setting them back as Max extricates his. “Thanks.”

Morse steps back again, hands going to his pockets. “Walk you home?”

It's a long walk – not impossible, and it's Max's plan, given he doesn't have work tomorrow. But it's a good forty minutes, and not one to do both ways. Quite apart from that, by the time Morse gets back he'll have missed the rest of the party. “You don't-”

“I want to,” Morse cuts off, and steps close again as he roots through the coat pile for his own. He's so close Max can smell his cologne. It's new, perhaps something he received for Christmas, and – wait. Since when does he know what Morse smells like?

Since moments like this, he realises. Moments with Morse just an inch too near for propriety, slightly in his space. Since he let himself lean close in return, telling himself no one would notice because it's him. And Morse. And who would ever think...?

“Okay.”

The walk is cold and silent, but not unfriendly. Just two tipsy souls banging elbows as they meander across town. Max left a lamp burning at the cottage, and he's glad as they walk up the path; it looks like home, and it helps him retrieve his key, fit it smoothly into the lock, and invite Morse in. Like any of this is normal.

“I want-” Morse breaks off, and scowls, looking frustrated at himself.

The cottage is warm and it's sent Morse's cheeks rosy, Max realises. He's still bundled up in that smart winter coat of his, collar tipped up against the wind, and Max wants nothing more than to peel him out of it. Maybe push him up the stairs, or maybe back him into the living room, where the last coals of the afternoon's fire still glow. Lay him out in front of it, and uncover layer after layer until there's nothing left but Morse.

He's beginning to get the impression Morse wouldn't mind. But it's been years of acquaintance, solid months of friendship, and the final step – it's hard to take.

“I want,” he echoes, not bothering to state what. Morse's eyes light up though, and his hands reach out to clutch the lapels of Max's jacket.

“Yes?”

There can't be any other possible meaning. No room for misunderstanding here, so he just nods, and tips his head up as Morse tips down.

It's sort of wet. A little sloppy round the edges, and tasting of beer – but Morse's hands let go of their iron grip on his coat and sneak their way underneath instead, coming to rest on the small of his back. And something about it – imperfect, certainly, drunken, maybe – but enthusiastic all the same, sets a little fire burning in his gut.

It's too late to start something now, nearing one in the morning, but his heart doesn't know that, and it controls his limbs as he pushes Morse through to the living room, stumbling after him. It sparks a bubbling happiness, up his throat until he feels like he could laugh – at nothing, at everything. He feels his lips stretch into a smile instead and he doesn't want to let go, but Morse breaks away to snatch a breath.

It stops him in his tracks. The lamp is low and golden, laying a sheen of warmth over everything. It catches on highlights in Morse's hair, and Max finds one hand sweeping it's way up into those curls. They're softer than he thought they'd be.

“Hello,” he says, a little stupidly. One corner of Morse's mouth turns up, before his whole face cracks with a brilliant smile.

“Hi,” he answers, leaning in and pressing quick, darting kisses to Max's lips. It's an onslaught, but the best kind, a kind he'd be happy to endure day in and day out. He pulls Morse down as he sinks to the floor in front of the fire.

He thinks, briefly, of the surprise on Morse's face from Dorothea's kiss, the pleased grin from Shirley's, the grumpy side-swipe after Fancy. And the way he looks now, lit from within and an easy form of happiness.

He did that. Somehow. God knows how. But he put that look there.

“Happy new year Morse,” he says again, and leans in for another kiss, eagerly returned. Isn't that the point of this tradition, after all? He's going to start as he means to go on.


End file.
